A Harmless Little Plan (Harmless #3)

by Meli Raine

  I don’t point out that we’re on carpet.

  Stellan’s body twists as he whispers to John, “No. No idea who that is.”

  “Helllloooooooooo?” says a sickly sweet, high-pitched beach bunny’s voice from the other side of some door. “Hello? I can hear you in there, Drew! It’s Tiffany! I need to tell you something, sweetie.”

  My heart sinks.

  Drew? Sweetie?

  I breathe in deeply again, the scent of the room making me reel. I get a hint of Drew’s aftershave. His scent.

  Are we in Drew’s apartment?

  Why would Drew let them bring me here?

  What would Drew – oh, my God.

  Is this one big set-up? Have I been played by Drew all along? Was he part of this from the very beginning and I was too naive to get that?

  Panic rises up in my blood, rushing through my veins and arteries. No. No. This is what they want me to think. Drew must have no idea they’re here. I stop myself from touching my hand where he inserted the microchip. These bastards are observant. Everything I do is being watched. Can’t let on.

  Drew will find me. He can track me, for God’s sake.

  John snickers and gives me a fake pitying look. “Awww. Poor Lindsay. Looks like Drew was fucking someone.” He looks at his phone, which seems to have streaming video on it. A tall blonde is outside a front door. I assume this is surveillance video of “Tiffany.”

  I roll my eyes.

  “Nice. Pretend it doesn’t bother you that he’s been dipping it in that dried-up old thing. Wonder how long he’s been banging her? Four years, maybe?”

  “What’s wrong, John?” I can’t help it. I say something. “Jealous?”

  Stellan grabs me by the ankles and whips me out of the living room, down the hall, and rotates, shoving me backwards by the ankles under the bed. I can feel my joints snap and pop in protest, my muscles screaming, my back covered with rug rash.

  “You’ll pay for that,” he rasps, lips an inch from my nose, his hot, nasty garlic breath making me sick again.

  I let out a long moan, the sound a gasp at the end. It sounds erotic, even to my own ears.

  John’s nasty laugh comes from behind me. “Look at that, Stel. She likes it rough.”

  “Huh.” Stellan releases me. “Yeah. Never would have thought.”

  “She wasn’t exactly awake last time. Remember how you had to have us hold her legs while you -- ”

  Bzzzz.

  John shuts up, thank God, as he answers his phone. I hear Stellan panting a few feet away. Everything in the room smells like Drew. It’s screwing with my senses, with my mind as it sorts through the truth. If I lose it, I’m dead.

  If I lose faith in Drew, they win.

  Drew

  “You can’t even be outside the gates, Drew.” Silas meets me about a quarter mile from The Grove. He’s been expecting me. Of course he has.

  “Where’s Paulson?”

  “Sir – Drew? What?”

  “Where’s Mark? He got me out of jail and I need his help.”

  “He isn’t here.”

  “Where the fuck is he?”

  “He’s in D.C. figuring out how to spring you. Haven’t heard from him for a while.”

  “Well, it worked. Now I need to talk to him or Harry.”

  “There is no way you’re getting access to the senator.”

  “Watch me.”

  “I’ll shoot you on sight if I have to, Drew.” Silas’ voice has an icy edge.

  I know he means it.

  Trust me. I trained him.

  I know.

  “They kidnapped Lindsay.”

  “Right.” Agony vibrates in his words. “We’re all doing our best -- ”

  “Not enough.”

  “What’s enough?”

  “I don’t know who to trust.”

  “You can trust me. And Paulson.”

  I shoot him a look.

  “You’re not exactly high on the list of trustworthy people from where I stand, Drew. Someone has to break here, and I can’t.”

  “I need a laptop. A computer with a powerful processor.”

  He walks to his car and I follow. In the backseat, a black leather computer bag has what I need. A few keystrokes and he gives me the laptop. I find my way to an encrypted site and search my wallet.

  “Got a micro USB adapter?” I ask him. Silas produces one almost instantly from a small ring of keys in his pocket.

  I find the tiny chip in my wallet, insert it in the flash drive, and load up.

  A map of North America appears and then it zooms in to California.

  “Coordinates are loading,” I mutter to myself.

  “You’re tracking her? In real time?”

  “I wish. We’re not quite there, but damn close. Any time she gets in range of an RFID scanner...”

  The screen’s processing. Churn churn churn. I slump against the seat and breathe. Silas reaches in the backseat and pulls out a water bottle.

  “Drink this.” He searches the glove compartment and hands me a small first aid kit. “There’s a protein bar in there and some alcohol wipes for your cuts.”

  “Cuts?”

  “Whoever detained you did some serious damage, Drew. You should go to a -- ”

  I give him a C’mon look.

  “Right.” Going to a hospital right now is the best way to get captured. I don’t exist, remember?

  And I need to not exist so I can make sure Lindsay does exist.

  The screen zooms all the way in and I see a very familiar-looking aerial view.

  “That can’t be right. Software malfunctioned,” I say under my breath. The coordinates don’t add up.

  “Need help?” Silas asks.

  “No,” I reply, terse and confused. Frankly, I do need help, because my right eye’s so swollen I can barely see. The water hurts my mouth more than it helps. I pry my lips open and force myself to drink. It’s better than being dehydrated. Every bone in my joints grinds with effort.

  I tighten my hands into fists, pumping my blood.

  I read off a list of coordinates.

  Those aren’t...wait.

  I stare at the numbers. Pull up a new window. Type them in.

  The picture the web browser shows is the front gate of an apartment complex.

  My apartment complex.

  “What the fuck,” I mutter, sure I did something wrong. This is human error. Has to be. There is no way those bastards kidnapped Lindsay from her parents’ estate and took her to my place.

  When something makes no sense, backtrack. Double check. Verify.

  I do.

  Same result.

  “What the hell are they doing with her in my apartment?” I say loudly.

  Too loudly.

  “What’s going on?” Silas is outside the open window, eyes sharp.

  “I found her. Maybe.”

  “Maybe? There’s no maybe with a tracking chip, Drew. You mean you found where they had her?”

  I squint. Not hard when you only have one functional eye, but it hurts. “Looks like the chip passed my complex’s RFID scanner about two hours ago.”

  “She’s at your apartment complex?” he asks, confused. Then he whips around on me, hand moving to his weapon. “Why?” Silas’ entire demeanor changes.

  “How the hell do I know? They’re not at the Island. Is that where Paulson is? Did he take off to try to rescue her while I was still detained?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Silas.”

  “I seriously do not know, Drew.”

  “I need to get to Lindsay before they move her.”

  “Why did they bring her to your apartment in the first place?”

  “Why do you think?” The realization crawls over my body.

  He reels. “They’re setting you up for her murder.”

  Chapter 4

  Lindsay

  I become intimately acquainted with the fibers on the bedspread in Drew’s bedroom. When you’re stuck fa
ce down, bound by the wrists behind your back while wearing skin-tight clothes, you find ways to calm down.

  Not that any of those ways work.

  It’s hopeless to try to manage my racing brain. Resilience is a useful trait when there’s hope.

  It’s horrifying when any chance of escape is gone.

  The mind can calculate, bargain, analyze and shift, taking in new information and discarding old as it figures out how to get back to an even-keeled state. The body, too. My muscles find micro-changes to help lessen the pain, spasms leading to more deep breathing than you’d find in a yoga class or at a pot rally.

  But you can’t escape your own mind. The anticipation of what these bastards plan for me makes the mind-body connection that much tighter. It’s my body they plan to use for whatever sick means to an end.

  All my mind can do is imagine.

  How could Daddy have been so stupid? The soft fibers of this pale blue bedspread feel hot against my cheek as I rotate my head and try to think. Any topic other than the screaming fear that they’ll hurt me is better. I replay the day’s events so far. Daddy telling me about going back to the Island. My argument with him. How he said it was just for an evaluation, a few days, a break.

  I knew he was full of shit. I pleaded. He said my relationship with Drew wasn’t healthy for either of us. All the while, I defended Drew.

  Maybe that was my mistake. Maybe I should have kept my mouth shut.

  Then Mom came in the room with Anya behind her.

  It all went downhill from there.

  My calf seizes in a cramp. As I move to make the throbbing pain stop, I widen my legs. Cold air rushes in. I’m not wearing panties.

  My day has really, really gone downhill.

  Like lava from Vesuvius.

  Anya had seemed pale and grim, more closed off than usual. She gets that way sometimes when Mom yells at her, or when a vote doesn’t go Daddy’s way.

  But this was different, I realize. Maybe she was pissed at me for going to Jane’s house.

  Or maybe she lied to Daddy and handed me off to my rapists from four years ago.

  You know. A little thing like that.

  If I breathe evenly, counting in fours and eights, I can fade out a little. Nothing I do will make me calm. Nothing. But I can control my breath.

  Can’t control my bladder, though. It’s screaming for attention. I have two choices. Call for help, or pee myself.

  “Oh, look. Isn’t she cute. Wiggle wiggle.” Stellan’s voice is followed by my ass being slapped, hard. The sting of his palm sends fear coursing through my blood like a spike, an infusion of uncontrollable tension.

  “I need to pee,” I tell him.

  He sighs, like this is the biggest imposition ever. Then I’m hauled to my feet. One ankle rolls and I’m half suspended. His fingers dig into my elbow as I squeal. He rights me, my body pressed against him.

  Stellan’s a well-known actor now, the kind you see on television in romantic comedies. I’ve heard he’s quickly become the golden boy, making nearly a million dollars an episode. Fast rise upward.

  A little too quickly.

  He brings me to the bathroom. Thank God he gives me privacy, even if he leaves the door open a crack. My hands are still bound behind me. I grab toilet paper before I sit down, then realize it’s useless.

  “Um, I need my hands,” I call out.

  Heavy sigh. Stellan appears, his expression grim. “Turn around. You don’t need this,” he says in a chiding tone, as if it’s my fault I’m wearing a zip tie.

  I bite back the urge to say I don’t need any of this.

  But he frees my hands. My shoulders ache. I take one step forward. My mind has to be still. Smooth and placid like the surface of a lake. All I can do now is take one movement at a time.

  And hope Drew gets here.

  I sit on the toilet and can’t pee. My body won’t let me. A memory from an online psychology class pierces through the chaos in my emotional tornado. When in fight, flight or freeze mode, the muscles tighten.

  That must include the bladder.

  “Come on,” Stellan calls out. “We don’t have all day.”

  What’s the rush? I want to ask him. In a hurry to hurt me? Kill me?

  The thought doesn’t help.

  Think about Drew, I tell myself. Remember his arms, how he smells. Look around the bathroom. There’s a can of shaving cream. A bar of used soap. A toothbrush holder with a crooked toothbrush hanging from it. The sink is messy, with small speckles on it. An electric razor is next to the shaving cream.

  Huh. Wonder why he shaves both ways.

  As I breathe my way to a relaxed state, I let myself indulge in imagining what it would have been like to become domestic with Drew. To come here and hang out. Spend the night. Slowly work our way toward a long-term relationship. Mom and Daddy would never put up with my living with him, but eventually we’d get married.

  My ring finger on my left hand tingles at the thought.

  Married.

  Mrs. Andrew Foster.

  Years ago, I had these fantasies. I lived a life before the attacks where I could be like any other woman, dreaming about the future. We even talked, tentatively, about what life would be like after Drew graduated from West Point.

  We were just about there.

  And then it was all taken from us.

  My body finally releases out of desperation, the relief making me tremble. This must be what happens, I muse as I finish up and wash my hands, all my muscles trembling, legs and arms shaking. This is how we handle the imminent threat of death.

  I stare at the faucet and turn on the cold water again. I cup my hands and bring water to my mouth, wincing as scrapes on my face touch the cold liquid. Drew doesn’t have a cup in his bathroom.

  Men are so weird.

  I drink until my stomach hurts. Who knows when they’ll let me have water? Out of habit, I grab the soap and wash my hands again.

  Why am I washing my hands if they’re about to kill me? I wonder, hysteria rising inside. Am I worried about germs?

  We’re conditioned by life to think in terms of cause and effect. Action and consequence. As I dry my hands, I see the raw marks from the zip tie. My Band-Aid rubbed off. I spot the pinprick from the microchip Drew put in me.

  Please, I pray. Please, God. Please.

  I stall, buying as much time as I can in the bathroom.

  And then Stellan comes for me, all dead eyes and eager hands.

  Drew

  “Jane,” I say to Silas. “Jane reported me. Mark said she reported my break-in to the police.”

  At the mention of her name, he averts his eyes. “Yeah. We don’t know what that’s about.”

  “I wondered. I’ve wondered if she was Lindsay’s informant at the Island.”

  “We investigated that, Drew. Came up empty.”

  “Doesn’t mean it wasn’t her.”

  “You think she turned against you? You think she’s part of all this?” He’s incredulous. I’m pretty sick of people using a tone of disbelief when they talk to me. “She was the one who found Lindsay four years ago.”

  “Yeah.” I give him a hard stare. “How about that?”

  He shakes his head, his huffing laugh dissolving into a low, gritty voice. “That’s pretty hard to swallow.”

  “But not out of the realm of possibility.”

  “Everything’s possible when you think the world is one big conspiracy theory, Drew.”

  “I have every right to wear a tinfoil hat right now, Silas.”

  “What about Anya? Harry said she’s the one who told him that was Mark Paulson on the helicopter. Is she in custody? Being interrogated?”

  His nostrils flare. “She lawyered up.”

  “What?”

  “She’s refusing to say a word without her lawyer.”

  “Damn.”

  “Doesn’t mean anything. You know how politicians are. Everyone lawyers up.”

  “She sent Lindsay on a helicopter
with the very same men who attacked her four years ago, pretending that it was Mark Paulson on that chopper, and you’re making excuses for her? Are you out of your fucking mind, Silas?”

  “Just stating facts.”

  “Facts suck.”

  “Welcome to reality, Drew.”

  “Oh, I’ve had more than my fair share of reality, Silas. Fuck off with the sarcasm.”

  “The reality is,” he says, ignoring that, “Anya is tight as a drum. Senator Bosworth is freaking out, and everyone’s mobilized to find Lindsay.” He looks at the laptop. “We should get as much manpower on this as possible.”

  I ignore that.

  “I can’t believe Anya threw Lindsay under a bus. She had to know that what she did meant sending her to her death.” My stomach roils at the thought. A vision of Anya fills my mind’s eye. Cool, calm, implacable.

  And that evil?

  “She’s been part of Harry’s team for too long to turn on the family.” I fight my internal denial. I need to be clear headed and impartial. The only bias I allow myself is toward Lindsay.

  “It’s hard to believe,” Silas says in agreement.

  This is a distraction. I need to focus on action.

  “We need to regroup.”

  Silas says, “Jane and Anya aside, the question is this: how do we get into your apartment and rescue Lindsay?”

  “We?” If my face didn’t hurt so much, my eyebrows would shoot up. “You realize this is career suicide if you help me.”

  “Tell me something I don’t already know.”

  Have I mentioned what a good man he is?

  “What about Paulson?” I ask.

  “What about him?”

  “Where is he?”

  Silas checks his phone. Taps a few times. Looks at me. “Still don’t know.”

  “Fuck. If Jane’s in on it, and Paulson’s in on it, who else?”

  “Throw in the senator while you’re at it, Drew. How about Lindsay’s mom? And me. We’re all part of it. Need a little extra foil for that hat you’re wearing?” He gives me a WTF? look. “Paulson isn’t in on this.”

  “How do you know for sure?”

  “How do you know I’m not in on it?”

  “I don’t,” I hiss.